| CRASH! SMASH! CRASH! Cheap china cracks just as easy as early romantic promises. The heat of her anger hurts the dog’s eyes, lungs, brain, and liver. David can feel it. The pain. And the opposite of the pain. He turned his head over into the sink and threw up the scotch and what looked like a half digested meatball. Another dish hit the wall. The downstairs neighbors pounded the ceiling with broomsticks in hopes of early reconciliation. “Hey,” he mumbled from the sink. You’re not throwing those at me, so what’s the point?” “You don’t eat my cooking anymore.” He turned on the faucet, wiped some water across his mouth, and tried to drain his unswallowed soul. He looked up at her. “That’s fucked up,” he said. “You’re fucked up,” she said. “That’s what I meant.” David turned on the little clock radio that sat next to the toaster. He had the oldies station tuned in when he went out last night and she hadn’t changed it. “Happy Together” by The Turtles rolled out of the box. He staggered toward her. She held the knife out in front of her. He grabbed her arms. He could feel the knifepoint in his belly. She reached over to the sink with the hand that didn’t hold the knife and grabbed a glass of something cooling over ice. She took a drink. She smiled. She pushed forward with the knife, a little, then leaned in close and kissed him softly on the chin. Helicopters buzzed above like futuristic bees attracted to misery. The dog coughed up a hairball and a cigarette. Mandara turned up the radio. She felt his hands on her waist, then the color of the ceiling, brown and yellow and gray and black as they stared up from the floor. She moved on top of him as she took another drink, spilled a little, and laughed as the red wine splashed on David’s face. They didn’t have to hate each other, not all of the time. The heat and dryness of the city left them lying there like two summer lizards posing natural, like monsters entwined. David turned his face from the window and looked at the large selection of record albums, jazz and rock & roll and half a bottle of Old Crow in the apartment, a dog that wasn’t dead yet, and an electric Fender guitar resting against the book shelf. There’s still time, he thought. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get back to work.” |
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